


Ceasefires

by virginianwolfsnake



Category: Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/M, this is the worst and best ship ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9578609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virginianwolfsnake/pseuds/virginianwolfsnake
Summary: "This is a declaration of the terms of a ceasefire, not an admission of wrongdoing on either side. For as long as he’s known her, their relationship has been a series of nothing more than ceasefires." Written for a Tumblr prompt: "You embarrassed me this evening" and set during The Carnivorous Carnival.





	

The short walk to the caravan seemingly allowed her enough time to work herself up into a full-blown fit. Having vowed never to have any children himself, it appears he’s acquired a tantrum-prone teenager in the body of a grown woman instead.

There’s a long moment of silence where he supposes she is waiting for him to ask her what’s wrong – and of course, because he knows it will irritate her, he doesn’t bother. In this brief pause, he folds his arms and leans up against the beaten-up old dresser that they haven’t been using, checks the time innocently and brushes one of thousands of specks of dust from the left arm of his shirt.

“What’s going on?” she eventually asks, tone clipped.

He waits for a second, wondering if there’s any way for this not to turn into a screaming match.

“You know that I don’t know what you’re talking about, right?”

“You know _exactly_ –” she stops halfway and takes a breath, reigning in the urge to launch into one of her usual tirades. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. _That_ woman. What’s going on?”

He rolls his eyes. Perhaps playing cool will diffuse the situation – that strategy hasn’t worked before, but there’s a first time for everything. “Nothing,” he says, as sweetly as he’s able to when he’s furious under the surface, adding “darling,” as an afterthought.

“We don’t need her,” she remarks, stating it as if it’s a fact rather than entirely her opinion.

He shrugs. “She’s useful, sweetheart. She’s helped me find them before.”

A little click of the tongue lets him know that he’s already taken a wrong step. “Yes. I can tell that she’s _helped_ before, in some…capacity or another.”

He breathes a tiny little laugh. He’s careful not to sound like he’s actually finding any of this funny, because that’s guaranteed to make it worse, but equally he doesn’t want to make it sound like he’s giving the accusation she’s clearly working up to making any real weight. It’s not an easy line to tread, and he thanks his acting skills for helping him pull it off.

“She’s going to answer our questions,” he articulates patiently. “Then we’re going to leave. Two more days, angel. That’s all.”

Esme chuckles humorlessly. That isn’t a good sign.

“Two more days,” she repeats thoughtfully, examining one of her fingernails with apparent newfound interest. He begins to think that he might have averted the storm. “Just two more days.”

“That’s right, sweetheart. It’s not long.”

She hums and tilts her head very slightly, as if he’s talked her round. He begins the process of internally congratulating himself on another crisis averted through sheer charm. “You’re right, I suppose. Only two more days of standing there like a _fucking idiot_ , watching you _flirt_ , in front of my face, with that disgusting, unstylish, _ridiculous_ , fucking half-fossilised carnival fortune teller. You know, actually, I think it’s going to _feel_ like longer.”

He tries not to feel too disappointed that he’s clearly failed in his endeavour. Nobody can push water back up a hill, after all.

“She’s got a thing for me,” he excuses, holding his hands out, palms upturned. “So what? If I piss her off, she won’t help us.”

“We _don’t_ need her,” Esme repeats, seemingly irritated further by his attempts at reasoning.

“It’ll be quicker this way, though, baby. What else are we going to do, drive around until we run into three stray children?”

“I’ll put Geraldine on it,” she negotiates. “Terrible reporter, obviously, but she’s got a good track record, and _so_ eager to please. Doesn’t that make more sense?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Not really. We’re already here.”

“I _know_ that,” she hisses. “But if we do it _my_ way I think we’ll be happier. Wouldn’t that just be nicer?”

Olaf sighs. Part of him is tempted to just agree, for an easier life. He isn’t especially keen on the carnival and doesn’t have much time for Lulu either, aside from the fact that she makes a good roast chicken and listens with rapt attention to all of his stories – it really wouldn’t be any skin off his nose to let Esme have this one. But a much larger part of him has always despised her attempts to manipulate his decisions. Why doesn’t he get to make the choice? He’s in charge, after all. He’s not her pathetic little house husband. Who does she think she is?

“No,” he decides, with a sniff. Without even looking, he can sense that she’s getting angrier and angrier by the second. “No, we’re staying here. For two more days – unless I think of more questions. Then it might be three, or four, perhaps a week. I’ll see how long I need.”

“No, we’re not,” she corrects, as if she thinks he didn’t understand the first time. “We should pack. I want to be out of here tonight.”

“No,” he says calmly. “Didn’t you hear me, sweetheart? We’re staying.”

Her voice is sharper suddenly, lower, because she’s given up trying to talk him around and resorted to trying to give instructions. “Don’t argue with me,” she warns, and that makes his blood _really_ boil. “I said –”

“We’re staying,” he repeats, more authoritatively. “That’s final.”

Then, like the first flash of lightning, the storm really begins. She’s suddenly unwilling to stand still, pacing irritatingly in front of him, like a child unable to understand why it can’t have ice cream before breakfast.

“So there _is_ something going on, then,” she concludes in a furious hiss. “Otherwise you’d agree.”

It’s enough to make him wish that there actually _was_ , if he’s going to get the third degree regardless.

“No, there isn’t,” he snaps impatiently. He doesn’t mind being accused of things he’s actually _done_ , but this is just irritating. He supposes this is how innocent people feel when they’re accused of crimes they didn’t commit – of course, he’s never had that experience.

“No need to lie to each other, that’s what you said. _You_ said that.”

“Yeah, and I’m not –” he begins, and then, unable to help himself, takes the bait. “And you _hypocrite!_ Do you want to talk about who broke that promise first?”

“ _Don’t_ change the subject.”

“Oh, what a surprise,” he growls sarcastically. “Easier if _I’m_ the villain, isn’t it? I’m not even _lying_ this time, but here you are, flying off –”

“At least lie _convincingly!_ ” Esme yelps. “She’s _laughing_ at me, did you see her face? All smug smiles, rubbing it in – what the fuck is wrong with you? She doesn’t _understand_ you. She is not worth even _half_ of me, even you should be able to work that out!”

“Have you got a hearing problem?” he snarls back, through gritted teeth. “I’ve said there’s _nothing_ , you stupid woman, how much clearer do you need me to make it?”

“Don’t raise your voice to me, how _dare_ you speak to me like that?” she shouts, apparently unable to see the irony. “Do you have any idea how _humiliating_ –”

“Do _you_ have any idea how humiliating dealing with this is? In open forum? You embarrassed me this evening, Esme.”

“ _I_ embarrassed _you!_ ” she cries incredulously. “How do you think _I_ feel, with you gallivanting around with that idiot, all old memories from years ago and fucking _presents_ –”

“For the love of – how do you think _I_ feel?” he bellows. “A little bit of respect, that’s all I’m asking for!”

“Playing the victim again! Is it tiring, being so predictable?”

“You are _not_ allowed,” he roars. “To make _me_ look like a fool, in front of _my_ employees, especially when there’s no goddamn reason –”

“If you thought I’d turn the other cheek,” she interrupts loudly, infuriatingly. “Then you _are_ one.”

“Shut _up!_ ” he orders, in a way that would make any of the troupe scurry away in fear with their tails between their legs. Of course, it doesn’t have the desired effect. Her spine stiffens and her shoulders set, ready to settle in for an even more drawn-out fight.

“You do not,” she warns, in a dangerous hiss, “talk to me like that. I do not take orders from you.”

“You _work_ for me!” he cries. “By definition, you do take orders from me. All of this was _my_ idea, not yours, and –”

“All of _this!_ ” she laughs, bitterly, gesturing around the grimy little guest caravan that is serving as their temporary home. “What, all this wonderful _success_ you’ve had? Without your fucking _ideas_ , I guarantee you I’d have managed to kill two preteens by now!”

“You idiot - there’s _three of them!_ ” he bellows, distantly aware that they’ve lost sight of the issue at hand but unable to think of a way to return to it – and uncertain if it would be better or worse if they did.  

“You incompetent bastard, you have to _keep one of them alive!_ ”

Before he has time to think better of it, before he’s even fully aware that it’s happening, his temper finally boils over into something uncontrollable. He will later realize that he smashes a lamp in the few seconds that he’s blinded with red, and creates a nasty dent in the door, and then suddenly he’s across the space between them, without being aware of taking a single step –  

“If you touch me,” she says, in a rush, back down to her normal volume. The white noise in his head makes it almost difficult to hear, but the effort to do so is what makes him come to a stop. “I will kill you.”

Like all the other times, he’ll never be totally sure what his subconscious had been intending. He sighs out a long breath and fastens one hand against the window frame, mostly to keep himself in one place. She refuses to move, even though it’s clear neither of them have any desire to be standing so close together. Doing so, in her mind, would probably amount to an admission that he’d frightened her.

“I’m not a joke,” he says, in the end, voice lower. “Don’t treat me like I’m one of your toys. You can’t control me. You know I won’t put up with that.”

She huffs, arms folded. “Yeah, well. Don’t treat me like I’m everyone else. You can’t trick me. I _know_ you.”

Of course, one of their fights is never going to end with an apology. This is a declaration of the terms of a ceasefire, not an admission of wrongdoing on either side. For as long as he’s known her, their relationship has been a series of nothing more than ceasefires. He thinks he deserves a grovelling apology, and undoubtedly she thinks the same, but there’s no point spending forever waiting around for the white flag that neither of them will ever raise.

“And,” she adds after a second. “I am not replaceable. Not with some _out_ fortune-teller, or anyone else. Don’t treat me like I am.”

It’s very Esme to think she’s really so special. His instant reaction is that she isn’t. Just another assistant, just as disposable – sure, she has some good ideas and a figure he can appreciate, sure they’ve occasionally had fun, but irreplaceable? No.

But when he thinks about it, even for the second he allows himself to, he knows it’s complicated. The self-centered woman who lies as well as she breathes shouldn’t be the last person he trusts in the world. But if he’s honest, she is. He shuts the thought process down there. It’ll only worry him if he dwells on it.

He chuckles, and settles for a neutral enough response. “Do you think there’s any other reason I’m putting up with this?”

She doesn’t have a reply for that. She’s calmer now – in the silence he notices that her breathing has evened out – but she keeps her face turned away and her arms crossed. Trying to pick the right moment to approach her is a bit like trying to figure out when the sedative has started kicking in on a wild animal; he’s liable to end up with a serious injury if he goes in too soon.

He reaches a hand out to touch her waist, and though she jerks away at first, he knows she no longer means it. When she relents, he wraps his other arm around her back, hand coming to rest on her bicep and giving a gentle squeeze. This is one of the most selflessly comforting gestures a man like him is capable of. She knows that by now.

It’s years between them, on and off, and even if it’s never been a love story – never could be – he feels some of the tension go out of her straight away when he encourages her to bend her head to rest her chin against her shoulder. They aren’t in love, but they’re _the same_ deep down, below all the bullshit, and they’re the only people that ever come close to understanding each other. They’ll always be closer to killing each other than they will be to being a normal couple, but that doesn’t mean there can’t be some comfort in the familiarity they’ve built.

When he awkwardly tries to bend his knees and crane his neck to kiss her on the cheek - and when she eventually chuckles at his efforts - he knows he’s won.

“Friends again?” he asks.

She takes a moment to reply, in which time he lets his arm slip away from her shoulders, sliding down along the curve of her back, hand coming to rest at her waist opposite the other. She gives him a long look, still tinged with suspicion, but relaxes and drops her gaze when he gives her a grin.

“Alright. I suppose.”

He knows her well enough to know that’s as good as he’s likely to get, at least for the next couple of hours. Pleased, he slides a hand around the back of her neck, thumb sliding under her jawbone to tilt up her head. It’s a gentle movement that in any other context, half a second’s worth of extra pressure later, could turn into a strangulation attempt.

She smiles against his lips when he bends his head to kiss her.

“For now,” she clarifies, in a mischievous whisper.


End file.
